


Gossamer

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: BDSM, Canon Era, F/M, Non-Sexual Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 23:27:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5352338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Anne has been his wife for six months when they stop fucking, and Olivier has never been happier.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gossamer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheVeryLastValkyrie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVeryLastValkyrie/gifts).



Anne has been his wife for six months when they stop fucking, and Olivier has never been happier. ****

It’s a month from the day she has him kneel at her feet for the very first time, eyes closed and head bowed, and just touches him: light, innocent touches, caressing every peak and trough of his face, neck and shoulders, fingertips skimming just beneath the collar of his shirt – while his fingers dig into the meat of his thighs as he forces himself to breathe slowly in and out through his nose, unable to think of anything but how much he longs to reach for her, more and more with every passing moment, until the ache bores through to his very _soul._

Since he first took her in his arms he has never denied himself, and isn’t sure he knows how – but she’s still touching him, setting his skin alight with it, the torture sweeter than he ever would have imagined, and between his legs his cock is throbbing from nothing more than the idea of finally burying himself inside her.

He doesn’t know what’s happening to him, why something as simple as staying still beneath her questing hands should make him _yearn_ like this; but when she finally sinks to the floor beside him and takes him properly in her arms, the love and the _relief_ that well up in him are nearly enough to bring tears to his eyes.

He raises his hands to her waist – only to have her catch them in her own, the strength of her grip a shock after her caresses – and press them back down to his thighs.

“I told you to stay still,” she murmurs, silken in his ear, her hair falling over his face as he breathes in her scent like it’s life-giving, aches all the more fiercely to embrace her. “I didn’t release you.”

“ _Please_ ,” he begs without hesitation, eyes still obediently closed and head still bowed, not sure how much longer he can stand to be good for her.

When she finally takes him in her arms, she holds him tightly enough that he doesn’t need to move an inch.

 

* * *

 

Three weeks before they stop fucking is the last hot day of the year, and his Anne undresses him piece by piece before bidding him kneel on the bed and binding his wrists to his ankles with the drapes ties, then pressing her mouth to his.

They kiss forever, until his lips are tingling and his breath comes short, until he feels half-mad with wanting to touch her; and this time is both better and worse. Worse, because he knows he simply _cannot_ take more than she gives him; better because he can whine and plead and strain against his bonds all he wants, and never let her down.

He’s quickly learning that she likes that.

He’s learning, rather more slowly, that this is not about coitus for her, though his own longings to be close to her, one with her, are more acute than ever; but she’s never playful or teasing when she touches him this way, doesn’t seduce. Instead her words are few, her expression strangely grave – until he pleases her, and the soft, slow smiles that follow seem to light her from within, and are more precious to him than any others.

When she pulls away, leaning back and resting her hands on his thighs, brushing her little fingers over the sensitive skin of his inner arms, he watches her smile like that and no longer cares that he’s hard and aching with no hope of release, wants nothing more than she’s prepared to give him, wants simply to please her.

“Good,” she says simply, reaching up to take his jaw in her hands; his eyes flutter closed and he nuzzles into the contact, the heady warmth of being with her, sure that he has never loved her so much as at this moment.

 

* * *

 

A fortnight before they stop fucking, he starts to long for this even more than he longs to lie with her, though he does not yet fully realise it.

He does not know how to ask, not yet, so he kneels down on the floor before her and lays his head in her lap without a word. She doesn’t stop reading, just moves his right hand from her thigh to the cushion of the chaise beside her, face-up, and writes her married name in the centre of his palm with her forefinger.

By the loop of the last _e_ he has already sunk so deep inside himself that his world has narrowed to nothing more than his awareness of her, the warmth and scent of her, the places where they touch.

She buries her hand in his hair, stroking and caressing as the light fades around them, until he can’t ignore the burning in his thighs any longer and whispers, “ _Please_ …”

Her fingers tighten into a fist and she yanks him back by the hair – hard – baring his neck to her, and he gasps with the shock of it as pain prickles across the base of his skull.

He doesn’t understand why he doesn’t hate it until he sees something spark in her eyes – and deliberately jerks his head forward, pulling against her hold until his scalp sings once more.

“ _Oh_ ,” she breathes – _interested_ , he can see it in her face as her fingers trace over his hairline. “Do you want me to hurt you?”

Though the warmth in his mind trusts her instinctively – wants to fall into anything she offers him – he’s still enough himself to hesitate.

He doesn’t know. But.

He _wants_ to.

She’s rough when she leans over, pulling him sharply up by the hair until their lips crash together, and he sighs into her open mouth and does not lift his hands to touch her.

 

* * *

 

The week before they stop fucking, he drags her down among the clover and uses his mouth on her until she cries out, then unbuttons his breeches and sheathes himself inside her, bracing his arms either side of her head and thrusting, thrusting, thrusting till he spills.

Afterwards, he lays his head against her shoulder and feels the flush of pleasure recede, leaving behind a new emptiness, when he realises that she is not touching him at all.

What is the worth of such fleeting pleasure, when he could place himself fully in her hands?

What is the worth of taking, now he knows just how much he can give?

When he kisses her, it’s both love and apology.

 

* * *

 

The day they stop fucking is the day he kneels before her on their bed and asks for the first time, “Let me?”

First she stills, searching for something in his face; then commands, “Undress me.”

His fingers tremble against the ties of her bodice, her corset, as she kneels up before him, a mirror of him, and sweeps her skirts out from under her as he lifts everything away. She’s Aphrodite made flesh, body smooth and white and warm to his touch, and he wants to drown in her, to suffocate, to fall so deeply inside her that he’s lost for good, that he never has to be free.

She binds their hands together with the ribbons from her hair, interlocking their fingers, and guides him over every inch of her skin, never looking away; then she turns his touch back on himself, teaches him his own flesh, until he feels drugged with sensation, drugged by her gaze.

He opens his mouth to speak, to tell her he never wants to be without her, never wants to be unbound – and she presses his own fingers to his lips before he can utter a word.

She’s right. What would he say that she does not already know?

Instead, she presses his hand to the bed, and pushes at his hip until it gives, and they sink to the mattress together, stretching out on their sides, legs entwining. Her breasts tight against his chest, his soft prick nestling at the juncture of her thighs, one hand held against her cheek and the other pressed to the swell of her thigh, cool beneath his touch.

He closes his eyes as she touches her forehead to his, noses brushing, a hair’s breadth between their lips; and they stay that way until darkness falls, breathing each other’s breath.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [TheVeryLastValkyrie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVeryLastValkyrie/pseuds/TheVeryLastValkyrie) and I each wrote our own version of this concept. Liked mine? [Read hers too!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5237204)


End file.
